Cherry Dumplings

About every other summer or so, my mother and I visit her parents in Russia. This is one of my many fond memories of those placid days.

You stand at the rickety kitchen table, both hands dipped in flour, cutting out circles of flat-rolled dough with a cup from the dusty glass cabinet in the living room (the one with my school photos tucked into the door and the smell of old perfume lingering over the dusty beaded necklaces coiled in the shot glasses clustered toward the back). The radio burbles its stories by the window, every so often interrupting itself to play soft, crackling music or call out the beeps of the new hour. I scoop teaspoons of fresh, pitted cherries onto each dough circle cradled in my own floury palm, pinch-twist the edge to seal in the filling; the varenik lies in my hand: a lumpy, straining crescent of anticipation. Yours are always much neater than mine but I tell myself that mine have character so it's okay A gentle reminder not to get the edges wet, or else the dough won't stick I curse my carelessness a bit, but your capable hands fix my mistake (as always). Your dark hair slips forward and you tuck the strands back absent-mindedly, flour smudging on your ear as the sun streams in through the window, air still but not stifling in the Russian summer heat of my grandparents' apartment.